


follow the light

by HappyCamper27



Series: you'll come back [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chara Needs a Hug, Everyone Needs A Hug, Frisk Needs A Hug, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Frisk, Pre-Canon, Prequel, also, dark themes, enjoy, no seriously, nonbinary chara, so it's kind of meta i guess?, this is backstory for the series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:22:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7333024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyCamper27/pseuds/HappyCamper27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where they were once strong, they fracture. Where they supported each other, they collapse.<br/>A broken trinity is nothing but a crumbling remnant of what once was and will never be again.<br/>...<br/><em>Eventually, they all Fall.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. it started out as a feeling

Existence is puzzling, they think sometimes. They are unknowns, presence rippling out across everything, twisting and gripping the fabric of reality in their non-existent hands.

Of course, they’re not alone.

_Are you still just sitting there?_

They laugh as the impression of red eyes and irritated impatience flickers around them.

_Technically, I don’t sit at all._

A huff of frustration.

_You know what I mean. Surely time isn’t so fragile as to always need your constant attention?_

They pause as a ripple of _frustration-worry_ winds its way around them.

_What’s the matter?_

_Nothing._

_…if you say so._

They know better than to argue, not with _worry-frustration-caution-stress_ flaring so brightly in their counterpart’s being; like a bright star about to go supernova, cradled in gentle hands.

_Have you had any progress with things?_ They ask, knowing that at least part of that frustration is due to the physical world, spinning away under expert fingers, being woven and created.

_No._ Their counterpart grumbles. _Stupid stars, not being ready yet._

_Surely not much longer, do you think?_

_No! There’s still at least a million years until the composition should be ready, and all my other projects are already working—they just need—_

_\--Time._ They break in, and their counterpart snorts, sharp amusement curling around them like a glowing nebula.

_Yes. Time._

They can’t help but be amused, enjoying their counterpart’s lightening mood.

_Glad to see you still need me,_ they murmur lightly, and their counterpart snorts.

_Without you, how would my projects progress? You’re so stupid sometimes._

They just laugh, allowing their _softgentleamusement_ to mix with _sharpclearamusement_ , like knives meeting velvet.

They don’t say it, but they know their counterpart’s project will work. After all, time is nebulous—it is everywhere, in everything. They too, are everywhere, in everything. The fires of young, brash stars, singing into the void as they glow; the clash of asteroids and planets, slow and steady, sharp destruction and creation of new life; the glow of a nebula, giving life to new stars from the death of old ones; magic, life, death—they are in everything, everywhere…every _when_.

They laugh to themself, and turn away. Let their counterpart have their fun—seeing their face when life finally spins into existence on so many different worlds, like glowing marbles and oases in the vastness of space that they rule…it will be a delight.

///

They don’t really remember much of how they began. Just…heat and fire and light, and power so strong that it dwarfs their own. Like putting a red dwarf beside a supernova.

They were the first, they think. After all, neither creation nor death can function without time to allow them to move, to give them _power_.

Such an arrogant thought, they know. But isn’t it true? Time rules above all; the glue allowing the threads of creation and the gentle touch of death to come together into a work of art that spans trillions of years, infinite in its reach.

What an arrogant notion.

///

A thread of _worryhappinesscuriosity_ nudges at them, gentle. They’re just _there_ , because space and direction don’t really…apply to them. Not really.

They shift, and their _other_ counterpart brushes against their consciousness. They see him—and such an odd concept, to call one’s self a ‘he’—far less often than their first counterpart, for he is often sinking into the reality of the art they have created together, reaching his gentle, cool touch across it, gently tugging out the old and burnt out threads that float aimlessly in their creation.

_How are you?_

They snort, and give him a look. He shrugs.

_Okay. Stupid question, I suppose?_ He laughs at himself, just a little. _I just barely ever see you anymore._

_We don’t really see each other anyway. Not in the sense that you mean._ They point out, and it’s true. None of them exist quite the same way that their creation does, and clearly he has been there too long.

He laughs, and shakes his head.

_You’re the one that introduced us to the concept, remember?_

Oh, they remember. A _mistake_. They should never have spoken of it—he’s never let them live it down.

_Are you still holding that over my head?_ They ask plaintively, and a burst of amusement washes over them like warm sunlight. For someone with such a dark task, he is almost surprisingly warm—except, no, that’s not quite true. Their creation can be so very cold, and it only makes sense that he’s warm. He’s _him_. Nothing more to it, really.

_Of course! You_ are _the youngest, and I barely get to embarrass you with anything._

_Oh dear,_ they murmur, and he outright sniggers at them; they roll their eyes. Let him think he’s older, just let him. Easier than trying to correct him.

A burst of _frustrationvictory_ brushes past them, it’s edges jagged and cutting. He flinches, and they sigh, pulling away from the pulse of irritation that they can both sense.

_Are they still at it?_ He asks, and they nod. He looks at them for a long moment. … _Will they succeed? Please,_ he adds when they open their mouth. _I need to know._

They’re silent for a long, long moment. They shouldn’t. Really shouldn’t. Time is…finicky. And even their counterparts are subject to it, stuck in its flow like fishes or pebbles in a stream. Revealing what, to him, is downstream, is…dangerous.

They hesitate for just a second longer, before they sigh. Since when have they really cared for consequences when he asks like that? As if they could ever truly deny him anything; his earnest sweetness is like honey to flies.

_Yes._

They repress a shudder as the damning word leaves their lips. His face warms with gratitude, and it brushes against them like warm sunshine and a cool breeze in grass.

_Thank you,_ he says honestly, and they nod as he leaves.

They brush their consciousness along the threads of time, searching for any consequences of what they’ve just done. They see nothing, and finally let themself shudder.

If there are any, they can’t see it.

And that’s…possibly even more terrifying than should be possible.

///

They sense it when their counterpart finally brings their project to fruition. The pulse of _joyvictory_ is hard to miss, and thrums like wind and water and fire against them.

_I did it!_ Their counterpart sings, and everything around them seems to dance with their fierce joy. It’s hot and crackling, and they smile. Their counterpart turns to them suddenly, looking irritated. _You knew I would, didn’t you?_

They shrug, and turn away, letting their counterpart’s mild irritation slide away from them.

For a moment, they pause and look back at their counterpart, once again absorbed by their newly ‘finished’ project. They hope, for a moment, that their counterpart will leave it, let it grow on its own, but they know that they won’t.

They grit their teeth, and very deliberately ignore the vague tugging in their head that hints at _trouble_. If they are to walk a path of trouble and danger, then they will spend what time they have left with their counterparts.

_May you live in exciting times_.

The words are faint echoes of curses and misguided well wishes.

///

It’s in a quiet moment that their second counterpart finds them. He is soft against them, not like their other counterpart’s fire and jagged edges that grate and catch at them.

He is silent for a long, long time, not looking at them. It’s not right, they think, because he has always been the chatterer of the three of them. Always bright and brilliant and talkative, like a baby star.

His words, when he finally does speak, catch them off guard.

_…what would you do, if I Fell?_

The words ring in the silence, and they stare at him, shock trembling along their limbs, such as they are. Why is he speaking of Falling? To lose him to that, to his memories and powers being stripped away and locked into a tiny, mortal container that dies over and over—it’s unthinkable.

He seems to sense their unease, but he doesn’t relent.

_What would you do, if I Fell?_ He asks again, voice sharp.

They can’t answer. The words are stuck in their throat like knives, refusing to claw their way out. He sighs, and turns away.

_Just…promise me something, okay?_

Anything, they think, but the words still won’t come.

_Take care of them._

The words are soft, and so very sad, and then—

—and then he’s _gone_ , like smoke in the wind, his entire presence vanishing and dropping away like it had never been. A cry escapes their lips, because it hits them like a slap to the face, harsh and stinging because he hasn’t just left, he’s _gonegone **gone**_ , all his power vanishing in a moment as he _Falls_.

It’s like a gaping hole, a place where there should be something but there _isn’t_.

A gaping, bleeding wound, rent and so horribly agonizing.

Another cry joins their own as their other counterpart feels it too, but it isn’t just pain and loss but a note of inexplicable anger, and it pulses and their counterpart whirls toward them.

_What happened?!_ Their counterpart demands, but they have no words, only nonsensical keening as the loss shakes them in it’s grip.

_What happened?!?!_ Their counterpart snarls once more, and the anger that’s beginning to pulse around them catches like knives. And they would answer, they would, but…their counterpart already knows. Already knows what happened, knows why there’s suddenly a gaping hole where _he_ once was.

They finally force the words out, choking on them like bile.

_He—he Fell._

It is, perhaps, the very worst thing they could have said. Their counterpart flares with fury.

_No! He couldn’t have! He would never—he wouldn’t—_

Their counterpart trails off, gritting their teeth, impotent fury pulsing out from them like poison. They are both silent for a long, long moment that seems to span eons.

_This is your fault,_ their counterpart whispers through clenched teeth, and the words strike them like whips, stinging like blows. They open their mouth, but their counterpart is already speaking, not letting them get a word in edgewise.

_This is_ your _fault. You can see the timeline! You_ knew _this was coming!_ Except that no, they really hadn’t; they’d forcefully blinded themself to the trouble ahead, too scared to look it in the eye. _You could have stopped this._

Their counterpart snarls, and turns away, and they can’t even see their once-sibling, warm and bright like a galaxy, so many stars circling a heart that isn’t so dark as it seems.

Now…now all they can see is fury as their counterpart turns away from them, accusation and fury like smog around them.

_You could have stopped this,_ their counterpart hisses once more as they sweep away, and they can’t even say anything, because it’s true. They _could have_ if they’d not blinded themself to the trouble in the future.

Regret is bitter in their mouth as they watch their counterpart—their _only_ counterpart, now—return to their project, ignoring them and the rest of the universe as they rage and rage and _rage_ , desperate to ignore the loss that now cuts them both.

It’s all coming apart at the seams, and all they can do is watch.

///

The moment their counterpart slips away, vanishing like smoke in the wind, they do not cry, nor do they keen or whine, words stuck in their throat.

No. They _scream_.

They were wrong, oh-so-wrong, to call their other counterpart’s loss a gaping wound. They know now—he took half their heart with him when he Fell. And now, and now—

—their counterpart is gone, taking the other half of their already torn heart with them. It’s agony, pure agony.

Vaguely, they know they’re still screaming, shrieking in grief and guilt and fury at themself, but it seems so far away that they just ignore it. It hurts so very much, and they curl up, holding their chest protectively as their being reaches out to counterparts that are no longer there.

_It’s all my fault,_ they think, and the thought is so oddly clear and striking it makes their breath stutter—or is that because of their missing, missing heart?

_This is all my fault._

The words are a damning prayer, repeating over and over again in their head as their world crashes down around their ears.

///

_…what would you do, if I Fell?_

 

The words are a faint memory, and they shudder, collecting themself slowly, so very slowly. They didn’t know, then, what they would do. Falling was so unthinkable, so absolutely impossible that they—they just couldn’t.

The words repeat again, in their head, echoing like a distant music box.

_What would you do, if I Fell?_

But now…their words are unstuck; dry and cracked, but ready to come when they call. And now, with their heart gone, leaving a bloody hole in its place, they know their answer.

 

_I’d save you._

///

It takes only a breath, and a sharp, sharp tug that burns like they’re doused in acid, in the end.

It hurts.

…

…it _hurts._

…

…

…

_…They Fall._


	2. pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, the heart of some of the brightest lights is the darkest thing in the universe—and sometimes, that very darkness will consume that light until there is nothing left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So. BEFORE anyone reads this, I want to preface it with this: this is dark. Chara isn't really...All Right, in this. So. If you have depressive thoughts, or things like that, and you think this will trigger you--please, please, do not read this chapter. Check the tags, because they have been updated to include the stuff in this chapter.   
> Aside from that, please, enjoy reading and be safe, okay?

Sometimes, they can see it. It’s like soaring, like falling so far that their ‘heart’ is in their ‘throat’ and they can’t stop chasing that feeling. Seeing things spin into existence beneath their fingers, woven into being with careful work and planning—it’s almost addicting.

They know that their two counterparts watch them with amusement from time to time, and they ignore the way it wraps around them like warm breezes and honey. They very studiously _do not_ secretly smile to themself, pleased that the other two care. Definitely not. Why would they do that?

Still, they know what’s coming, and they just…can’t pull away. Not yet. They’re getting close, so _close_ —so many possible places for it to finally spring into existence, it just needs time and a little nudge. Just a _little one_.

So they bury themself into their work, working with a fierceness they almost don’t recognize in order to see their plans come to fruition.

Later, they hate themself bitterly for their shortsightedness.

How could they be so _stupid?_

///

It’s a spark. Just a little one, but it’s enough, and they stare at it. They…they did it!

They laugh, breathy and joyful, and they rush to tell _someone, anyone_ —and one of their counterparts is there, and they can’t _wait_ to see that serene, jerk-ish look wiped off their face when they tell them—

_I did it!_ They will forever deny that they nearly sing the words, fierce joy beating in their chest. Their counterpart smiles, and it takes a moment before a sudden irritation blooms in their chest, and they grit their ‘teeth’. _You knew I would, didn’t you?_

It’s not quite an accusation, but it is sharp and barbed—but they’re too frustrated to care. They hold back a growl as their counterpart shrugs, smiling mysteriously.

Sometimes, they just want to _hit them_. They don’t, of course, because they know their other counterpart would be _disappointed_ in them if they did that, and seeing him disappointed in them makes something wrench in their chest—not quite painful, but hurting and uncomfortable.

So they turn back to their project, readying everything they need to initiate the next steps, burying the irritation in a little box at the back of their mind.

_(They miss the sense of unease that prickles at them as they do so)_

///

When it happens, it’s a wrench. It’s horrible and painful, agony shattering every thought that they were having. They collapse, gasping, choking on the wordless screams that want to rip free.

Finally, a shocked, sputtering cry rips from their throat, and they’re grasping desperately at where he _used_ to be, his light vanishing like mist in the morning sun.

Eventually, they manage to stand, the sharper pricks of anger— _fury_ —pushing them past the agony.

_What happened?!_ They demand, only to be greeted by wordless keening _loss_ , and their fury flares even brighter. _What happened?!?!_ They snarl, desperately trying to deny what they _know_ must have happened.

If it can’t be said, if the words won’t form—it can’t be true. It _can’t_.

_He—he Fell._

It rings like a death knell, a deep bell ringing in their mind. Bone deep horror chills them to their core, and then the fury flares ever hotter and they cling to it, letting it carry them. Better fire than ice, better fury than all-consuming _loss_.

_No! He couldn’t have! He would never—he wouldn’t—_

They trail off, gritting their teeth against the agonized scream that wants to rip free. For a long, long moment, they are silent. And then—then they’re speaking.

_This is your fault_ , they whisper, and their counterpart—now their _only counterpart_ —jerks like they’ve been slapped. They plunge on, the words falling out of their mouth like poison and bile. _This is_ your _fault. You can see the timeline! You_ knew _this was coming!_ They pause, feeling themself shaking with fury. _You could have stopped this._

They turn then, unwilling to stay and harm one of the only two people they thought they could _trust._

_You could have stopped this_ , they whisper, and then they leave, letting the rage flare forth with all the power of a supernova.

///

Sometimes, the heart of some of the brightest lights is the darkest thing in the universe—and sometimes, that very darkness will consume that light until there is nothing left.

Once, they had almost managed to convince themself that they were the darkness at the heart of light, doing something _good_.

Now…now they know better.

Everything they _touch_ falls away into nothingness, and they _can’t do anything_. It’s their fault, because nothing they touch ever goes well.

The universe is cracked now, spiraling away into a future of cold and dark—or maybe heat and fire, they could care less.

They’re cracked too, and it’s peeling away at them, fracturing a little more with every movement they make. They’ve been broken for a long, long time, and they once thought that maybe their counterparts could help, and together they could put themself back together.

But they know better now.

They can’t fix _anything_.

And…maybe it’s cruel, maybe it’s petty. But they don’t really care anymore, because there’s _no reason to._

All it takes is a breath.

///

If they could look back, and see all they did in the name of that darkness that eats and eats and eats and has been eating at them for as long as they could remember, they would cry; it’s nothing but bitter pain and sadness that lies in their wake.

But they can’t anymore, and so they don’t.

It’s a mistake.

///

It follows them, that brokenness, even though they don’t realize it.

The first time, their parents die, and they’re left alone in a wide, cold world that’s dark and strange and wants nothing more than to kill them. It doesn’t care, and they know it.

They die within the year.

The second time, their parents die too. Once more, they’re left alone in a wide, cold world—except they’re not, not really. This time they have their aunt and their cousin. They might have been better off without them; after all, no one cares about a no-name, pitiful orphan child without a penny to their name.

The third time, their parents don’t die. It would have been better if they had.

It happens, again and again, and if they could look back and see what they’ve left behind again and again—no, better not to think of it.

///

They don’t know it, but it’s their twentieth time, and they’re standing on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the ocean.

All it takes is a breath.

///

The sealing is terrifying; the magic whorls like the winds they can sometimes feel just before a storm, and they stare with wide eyes as lights flare like a rainbow.

And then—and then—

They flinch as something _rips_ at the seven Mages, and then they’re _gone_ , leaving a hole where they once were.

This time, they’re left broken and bleeding after their twentieth birthday; their magic doesn’t help death, and they bitterly curse whatever gods exist, because they are nothing but cruel mockeries.

///

They’re a demon, according to the village. Red eyed and bitter, watching with angry eyes, ready to curse them all into hell.

Still, they’re glad that it’s directed at them instead of their twin, who watches with scared, identical eyes as the village tortures them. For them, they’ll gladly walk into hell and bathe in the flames.

The rumors whisper in their ear, speaking of the mountain—of Mt. Ebott, where no one goes. That no one returns from.

And finally—finally it’s too much. They run, fleeing the village, leaving everything behind. And when they have time to think, they regret leaving their twin, the one worthwhile thing they’ve ever had, but…surely, _surely_ , they can be selfish? Just once?

Of course, the universe spits in their face, because the moment they’re not paying attention, they trip. And they fall.

///

It’s heaven. It must be. Everyone’s so _nice,_ and they can eat regular meals, and Asriel’s a little crybaby but still so _nice_ —

They can’t help but feel like they’re dreaming, even as they smile and nod as they’re introduced to the monsters, to Gaster and Gerson and the Blooks and the River Person.

It’s _heaven_.

Secretly, they wait for the other shoe to drop.

Because they know by now—they can’t have nice things. They don’t deserve them, they’re not good enough.

And this—this certainly qualifies.

///

The other shoe drops.

Except—it’s not because of the monsters. Not because of the wonderful, amazing creatures who took them in.

No. It’s _their fault_. They were so _stupid_ , and now they can’t do anything but scream as Asriel shudders into so much dust around them, taking them with him—or him with them. It doesn’t matter anyway; it’s still their fault.

It was _heaven_ , and they made it into their own hell.

///

When they first wake up again, their first reaction is shock, because— _why are they awake? Is this some nightmare, meant to punish them?_ But no. No, it’s not.

Frisk isn’t them, but—but.

They keep their silence.

///

Then it happens.

They stare in horror through Frisk’s eyes as dust coats their hands, and their heart chokes in their throat.

They _knew it—_ it really is a nightmare, and they’re living it.

They don’t know it, but it’s the very first genocide run that Frisk ever does. They don’t know why. But they hate every single step of it.

///

Somewhere along the way, it gets muddled. Sometimes, Frisk is lucid, and horrified at what they’re doing. Sometimes, it’s all they can do to drag at their hands, to slow them down just a _little_ —

And slowly, oh so slowly, it becomes _them_ holding the knife. Better them, they think, than Frisk. Better the demon than the child, better that they break and break and _break_ than watch someone else do it.

Somewhere along the way, they manage to fool themself. If this is a nightmare, then maybe the only way to wake up is to finish it—and to destroy it _entirely_. Something _pulls_ in their chest, and they are hardly aware of the golden light bathing them as they aim for that one last blow against a stupid, stupid skeleton who wants nothing more than to destroy them, to send them back to the beginning of this nightmare.

It’s nothing more than a foolish dream.

They feel Frisk waking up, stirring, and they grasp futilely as Frisk drags away their control, setting the world back with a single push of will.

[RESET]

///

They do it again. And again. And _again_.

Every time, they don’t manage to get any further than that _stupid stupid stupid_ skeleton’s dust, until he starts changing things up on them and they can’t help but want to _scream_ in frustration.

Why can’t he see that they’re doing what’s best? That the best thing, the fated end of this horrible nightmare, is for it all to end? For this world to be ended and plunged into nothingness, and for them to return to their dark death?

Better that death, and the knowledge of what they had done, than _this_.

///

They’re almost there. They’re so, so _close_ , and they can almost _taste it_. Victory is almost in their grasp, and they’re so ready for this to end, so _numb_ —

But then they can’t. Frisk is there, wrenching away control, and they howl.

_What are you doing?! I’m winning!_

But it’s futile, because all it takes is a breath.

[RESET]

///

When Frisk finally manages to win after seizing control once more, they stare at the setting sun with something close to hope. Is this maybe their win? Their release?

But no, it’s not. Because Frisk grasps at their power, and they watch as the blue skeleton—that _stupid smiley trashbag_ —meets Frisk’s eyes, almost worried. Almost angry.

Frisk closes their eyes, and they laugh, bitterness welling in their chest.

_We’re playing again? How cruel, to rip away their happy ending._

[RESET]

///

“Why do you keep trying?”

Frisk pauses, and Asriel sighs, almost sad.

“I know you’re not Chara; they were…they weren’t the best person.”

The words are like a fiery whip striking them, and they flinch. It’s true, though. This, all of this—it’s _their fault_. Everything bad that happens to them is, really.

Not for the first time, they _hate_ the world, _hate this stupid nightmare turned dream_ —

But they can’t even bring themself to care anymore, not when Asriel hates them, can’t bring himself to want them back anymore.

It’s not worth it—nothing is, not anymore.

///

Eventually, eventually, they manage it. They seize control, and scramble for the end, for the end of this damn nightmare— _please please please they just want it to end—!_

And then they do. They’ve done it, and that fake-Asriel and fake-Dad/Asgore are gone, and they just have to make it _end_. Just a little more.

Then…then they’re standing in front of Frisk, smiling and joyful in a terrible, terrible way.

_I’ve won,_ they say, shaking. _I’ve won this little game_.

Because it has to be. A game, a nightmare—this can’t be real. If the words that say it’s real can’t be said, can’t even be whispered, then it _can’t be true._ It just _can’t_.

_Who are you?_ Frisk asks, and for a moment they almost say _I’m Chara._ But they don’t, because if they’re Chara, if their name is said, it somehow makes this all just a little more real, and they can’t bear that.

So they use their other name, the one the villagers gave them so long ago.

_I’m the demon that comes when you call its name,_ they say, that breathless smile never budging.

The world fades away around them, and they hold out their hand.

_Now, why don’t we destroy this world and move on? We can keep playing, and I can keep winning!_

They’re so ready for this to be done, and if all it takes is talking Frisk into this, into this ending, then so be it. It’s just a nightmare, a horrible game that they have to play out to the final credits.

Frisk shakes their head, and sudden, horrible anger blooms in their chest. Without thinking, they lash out, grasping at the power that lies in themself and that lies in Frisk—

_Who ever said you were the one in CONTROL?_

It rips from their throat, and suddenly they’re both dragging and pulling and it’s a demented game of tug-of-war.

The world glitches for just a moment, and their mind skitters back to their once-twin when they see Frisk’s eyes.

They both [RESET].

///

Frisk just lays there, yellow flowers crumpling under their body. They hiss, trying to force words forward, because they’re suddenly so very _afraid that this is real_.

But Frisk is remembering things, things that ring like bells in their head. Those yellow flowers and half-remembered-but-always-treasured red eyes stab them in the chest, and they choke.

_Why…do you remember that?_ Bile is rising in their throat.

Frisk just shrugs.

It takes a while, but they finally speak, forcing the words from their throat.

_Chara._

Frisk tilts their head, and they grit their teeth.

_My name. It’s Chara._

Frisk smiles. _Nice to meet you, Chara._

They bite their tongue, swallowing the poison that wants to spew from their mouth and drip from their tongue. Why haven’t they learned their lesson yet? _Nothing_ ever goes right.

_…I hate you,_ they manage finally. Frisk just sits up, moving onwards. For a split second, they’re so angry and _jealous_ , because how can this kid just keep moving on like this when they’re doing everything they can to _end it?_

_Why do you keep trying?_ They finally ask.

Frisk doesn’t answer, just bites their lip.

They snort, and can’t help the swell of bitterness that makes itself known.

///

Frisk is—Frisk is _gone_. Slipped from their fingers like so much smoke, and now they’re alone in a body that isn’t theirs and panicking because they _haven’t woken up_ and _Asriel is right in front of them_.

The words wrench themselves from their lips, and they cry out.

“Frisk? _Frisk?!”_

They really should have learnt their lesson by now.

They’re cracked, broken, and nothing ever goes right for them. They’ve killed and murdered the only ones who ever truly cared for them over and over and _over again_ and now they’re alone and gasping for air that just _won’t come_.

They really are just a demon, aren’t they?


	3. as you head off to the war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe there was something to his counterpart’s nightmares after all.

He knows he’s not like the other two. They’re more nebulous, things that are constant and forever beginning. He’s—well. He’s an _ending_. He takes what they make, to make room for more. And it’s hard to describe _how_ he does it, but he does, because everything comes to an end. Everything dies.

They don’t always understand how he knows, or why he’s always away, but he does. He’s different, but he’s necessary; a welcome grounding to their detachment. He knows he’s necessary, knows that he has to do what he does for there to be a proper balance.

Creation, time, and death. Beginning, constant, and end. 

It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to be away for so long.

///

He isn’t sure when he first becomes aware of it. It’s a silent thing, slithering around in the darkest corners of the universe. It’s disquieting, but…if it exists, then it’s supposed to. His counterpart doesn’t create things for nothing, doesn’t make things on a whim—well, most of the time. 

Even so, he pays it only cursory attention. Because really, he has other things on his plate, rushing around the universe carefully tweaking the system he’s slowly setting into place. Because as the universe grows older, ever expanding further and further, it’s harder and harder for him to do his duty. Even as powerful as he is, he isn’t _all_ -powerful. That isn’t a title that belongs to anyone.

Eventually, he forgets about it. It’s not like it’s doing any harm, is it? And besides, who is he to say what should exist and what shouldn’t? Death reaches all things, after all.

///

It’s a supernova that eventually sets him onto the track to remembering that darkness. Because—that, that wasn’t supposed to _happen_. Wrong place, wrong time—like something took what was supposed to be and _averted it_.

Those two stars weren’t supposed to collide, not at all. Reality ripples around the event, and it takes him a moment before he realizes that something is very, _very_ wrong. 

So he goes looking. The system is strong enough now to hold up without him for a while, taking the strain of the majority of his duties while he investigates. Briefly, he wonders if the other two felt the explosion, the _wrongness_ , but—if they had, wouldn’t they have contacted him?

For the time being, he looks into it alone. What he finds—well.

_Something_ grabbed those two stars, and _threw_ them together. The resulting ripples and wrongness seem to have been it’s plan in the first place, or maybe it just wanted to know what would happen. He’s not sure which is worse, because both are terrible. Deliberate malice or casual cruelty?

But then—but then, he starts looking. Because surely, surely, this wasn’t the first. Stars are hard things to manipulate, to shove off their course. Whatever did this was _practiced_. So he’s missed things, and that worries him.

More than that, there’s something out there that’s capable of _making_ him miss them. That lingering _wrongness_ would have—should have—tipped him off, every single time. But it didn’t.

So just what is this thing?

///

Eventually, he catches the thing at work. It’s more an accident than actual skill, because he stumbles upon it far too late to actually do anything. 

What happens is enough to make him choke.

Three stars, one already on the verge of going supernova, slammed into each other like rocks thrown at a wall. Just the three together are blinding. It/they pulses.

And then it/they explodes.

And in his peripheral vision, he catches it.

It’s a silent, slithering thing, but it’s bigger than it was so long ago. Stronger, more malevolent and malicious. And as the energy of the explosion ripples around him, he realizes. It isn’t just in this for the chaos—there’s a better payout.

It’s _eating_ the destruction, taking a fierce sort of malicious joy in the destruction and warping of what was supposed to be. 

He is abruptly reminded of what came _before_ him and his counterparts, and can’t help the sick shiver that wracks his body.

Maybe there was something to his counterpart’s nightmares after all.

///

In the end, he should’ve seen it coming. But he doesn’t, because he’s worried and anxious and just simply _not paying attention_. It catches him off guard, and before he realizes it he’s almost screaming from agony, because this thing knows how to snatch and twist at what was, and warp it into what it wanted it to be.

He fights it off, but it’s already too late. He’s hurt and wounded, and everything aches and throbs agonizingly. It _changed_ something in him, he thinks, but can’t quite think past the haze in his mind.

It takes an almost embarrassingly long amount of time for him to sense it. It’s dark, and insidious, crawling around in his head and heart like a parasite, nipping at his power enviously. The horror that flares in him makes it scurry and snicker, because it _knows_ that he can’t do anything about it.

He tries, and it just twists out of the way every time, reality flickering to it’s will as much as his. It’s like trying to fight one of his counterparts—reality itself listens to both of them, obeys them just the same. And he—he can’t out think this, not really. It’s never been his forte, strategizing and outthinking his opponent. He’s never _needed_ to.

And if he runs to the others…the thing snickers. It’s just _waiting_ for that, for the chance to seize control and rage and rage and rage—

—And he absolutely _won’t let it._ He won’t, he won’t, _he won’t_. Because they are more precious to him than anything, the other pieces of him. So carefully, he starts to plan.

///

_Will they succeed?_ He asks, and interrupts before his counterpart can say a word. _Please, I need to know_.

And he does, desperately. Because—if they succeed, if they manage it, then there’s a chance that his stupidly crazy plan might just work. That the plan might just succeed, and that he might be able to set it right.

They hesitate, and he struggles to push down the snickering, dark thing that’s coiled inside of him, because he just needs a little more. One word, one answer, and he might just have a chance.

_Yes._

He nearly shudders with relief, and smiles at them, so very, _very_ grateful. _Thank you_ , he says, and they nod as he walks away. He’s almost done it, almost there, and now he has it confirmed that maybe his stupid idea will work. He almost snorts at himself, gritting his teeth against the hissing snarls of the dark thing in him as it tries to wrest control. 

_I’ve been spending far to much time with them,_ he mutters, thinking of his soon-to-be victorious and audacious counterpart, trying to bring a different sort of life to the universe. _They’ve infected me with their crazy ideas._

///

Everything’s fallen into place, now. He doesn’t want to do this, not at all, but—is there really any choice? He can’t hold out much longer, not with every breath a struggle to keep control. So he smiles, just a bit, and says—

_Just…promise me something, okay? Take care of them._

And he lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. That's the end to this one. A three chapter prequel--what did you guys think?  
> Also, for those interested in the novel I'm working on: I've opened up a blog devoted to my writing on tumblr! You can find it as @iwillwritethisbook.

**Author's Note:**

> So. I kind of wonder how many people who read this after/before _better days are near ___are either having epiphanies or are utterly confused. Feel free to let me know in the reviews?  
>  This will be updated in tandem with chapters of _till the sun goes down_ and _blue_ , so be aware. Enjoy!


End file.
